Yosh has always been there.
The one person who listened when no one else knew I was screaming inside.
He lets me break in front of him, over and over, and he never once turned away when things got ugly. He heard things I couldn’t even admit to myself. He stayed and didn’t mind my broken parts.
Hell, he even started to collect and glue them like it was his new favorite thing to do.
Maybe because he could see past the mess I am.
So why would he betray me?
I wanted— no, Ineededto hear it wasn’t true. That this fucker Terrence was trying to sabotage things again.
But Yosh had said nothing, and in that silence, I saw confirmation.
Only now can I think more clearly, and I remember: Yosh always shuts down during confrontation. He freezes and then takes off. I’ve seen it before. I should’ve remembered that.
I should’ve known.
The guilt is driving me insane. I need to get the fuck away from the terrace, from Arcadia, from everything that feels like fucking Alcatraz.
I storm down the stairs, two steps at a time. My chest burns, so do the tiles under my feet. I don’t stop until I hit powder-white sand.
The beach is deserted, the sky filled with clouds, and the moon is hanging bright above, playing hide-and-seek behind them.
The sand feels damp and cool beneath my feet. I don’t even remember taking my shoes off.
The last rolls of the waves curl around my ankles, soft and cold, and I let them.
With each wave, I sink deeper into the sand and let the water do whatever it wants with me.
I pull a pack of cigarettes from my pocket and flick one out with my thumb. It hangs from my mouth, barely held between my lips. I pat my hoodie, then my pants.
No lighter.
“Fucking wanker,” I mumble to myself.
I’m about to throw the cigarette into the sand when someone speaks beside me.
“Light?”
Erin’s with her back against the wall of the beach bar. She’s probably been watching me longer than I’d like.
She passes me her lighter. I hesitate, then take it.
Shielding the flame with one hand, I feel the cigarette catch and glow. The first drag loosens something tight in my chest.
Smoking has never really been my thing, but in moments like these it gives me something to focus on. The smoke hits the back of my throat and warms its way down.
After a few desperate pulls, I hand the lighter back.
“Aren’t you head of the addiction department up there?” I gesture toward Arcadia at the top of the cliff.
“My clinic is for people with a problem,” she says calmly. “Cigarettes aren’t my problem, they’re my solution.”
“If you say so,” I mumble, exhaling smoke.
Erin lights a second cigarette off the embers of the first.
